Falstaff, Royal Opera House, London<br></br>LamenTate, Tate Modern, London

Forget the young and tragic - love is for fat people too

I could probably count on the fingers of one hand the number of times that I've sat through an opera without being bored for one minute. I could probably count on the joints of one finger the times I've been moved by the singing, astonished by the excellence of the orchestral performance, noticed nuances in the score that I'd previously missed, and laughed out loud. The current revival of Verdi's Falstaff – so bursting with energy and humour and love and seriousness and generosity – is one such evening. Third time round it may be, but for Covent Garden it's third time lucky.

Maybe the chemistry is finally right? Certainly, this cast act and sing superbly as a unit; pitching the madrigalian laughter and spit-spot dialogue perfectly, and highlighting the Mozartian qualities in Verdi's tight, witty ensembles. Or maybe it's down to Antonio Pappano, whose well-observed colours and tempi match the farcical bustle and vigour of Graham Vick's production and balance its slapstick with pathos and sympathy. For those used to Haitink's coolly gorgeous Verdi, Pappano's clever, human, heartfelt account is very different.

As Falstaff, Bryn Terfel brings greater subtlety to the role than he did in 1999 and seems to have learnt that less can be more. His singing, and that of Soile Isokoski (Alice), is a perfect negotiation between the demands of textual clarity, stylistic edge and glorious legato; their supporting cast well-blended and lively, give or take a little stiffness from Anthony Michaels-Moore as Ford. But what seems clearer in this revival than before is the humanity of this opera's subject: that love and desire are not reserved for the young, beautiful and tragic, but are powerfully felt by the old, the fat, the happy, the married, and even parents. An optimistic, sensible, sensitive, and very realistic opera, excellently performed.

Were the threat of civilian casualties, global warfare, gluttonous TV coverage of stuff you hoped your children might never have to see, and worldwide economic misery not enough, I have discovered another reason to be worried about military action against Iraq: its effect on the arts. I'm not talking about a dive in ticket sales. I'm talking about the inevitable rash of "artistic responses" such as the excruciatingly named LamenTate; last weekend's collaboration between Peter Sellars, Anish Kapoor and Arvo Pärt at Tate Modern.

Having never thought that Kapoor's vast, harmonious, cervical sculpture Marsyas was, as Sellars put in his notes, "... a Guernica for the 21st century ... three gigantic mouths screaming from the flayed skin in a great howl of pain", the worst I expected from this event was pick'n'mix mysticism. Instead I saw art hijacked by agitprop. Sellars's Pentagon Conference reworking of Antonin Artaud's For an End to the Judgement of God turned a subtle satirical instrument into a blunt weapon through the egregious use of CNN-style videos of American firepower hitting innocent (Afghan? Iraqi?) civilians. Its seeming target was not merely today's Republican hawks but, through the elision of Artaud's text with Kissing God Goodbye, June Jordan's tedious, simplistic, misandrous whinge about childbirth and other female woes, all men. All men except those wearing middle-Eastern dress in Sellars's videos, that is – though I think that the more fundamental of these would be unlikely to have much truck with radical opera directors or feminist poets.

"What decade are we in?" asked my companion. Quite. How can such a clever man think that real life is as black and white as a cowboy movie? How can such a clever man stage a work where the historic suppression of women is said to be analogous to slavery? Not only was this the first Sellars production that I have I seen to be less than watertight in its internal logic – Afghanistan not holding the best track-record in gender politics – it was also the first I have seen where I felt patronised by the polemic.

After this, Pärt's work, unsurprisingly, contained few surprises; threading Monteverdian brass antiphons, slivers of Brahmsian pizzicato, and a quivering series of pedal notes along an inexorable harmonic spine. Technically it presented little challenge to pianist Hélène Grimaud – though it made good use of her formidable ability to hold a line over long silences – or the players from the London Sinfonietta and the Royal Academy of Music. Musically, it likewise presented little challenge to the listener, being no more nor less lament-like than most Pärt and pleasant enough background music for those who wanted to wander around the Turbine Hall and calm down. It made me realise that the soothing quality that Pärt's admirers appreciate in his music has some efficacy. It also made me long to hear Parsifal there. But with the agitprop artists now in residence, I may be in for a long wait.

a.picard@independent.co.uk

'Falstaff': Royal Opera House, London WC2 (020 7304 4000), to 26 February